


Honey & Lavender

by HalfwayToHell



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Minor Angst, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 06:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5487662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfwayToHell/pseuds/HalfwayToHell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the summer after Sam's sixteenth birthday. A letter had arrived in the mail--A letter that would change everything that both the Winchester boys knew. It was a letter that would lead Sam to choose between the life he knew then and a better one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey & Lavender

**Author's Note:**

> (This is a reference from "Unsteady".)
> 
> Playlist:
> 
> Candlebox-- "Cover Me"  
> The Oh Hellos-- "The Lament of Eustace Scrubb"  
> Cloves-- "Don't Forget About Me"

_ _

 

_Strike._

Another black line slashed across the white paper.

Sam stared at the angry line through his thick eyelashes, his jaw clenching. He gripped the black ball point pen tightly in his right hand while his left ran frustrated fingers through his wild hair. Sam paused to grip a handful of his hair between his fingers and pulled at the strands, trying to calm his nerves.

Sometimes pain calmed him, reminding him to keep his cool. Other times, it set his teeth on edge. This time, the small ache coming from his scalp created conflicting emotions inside of Sam.

He was neither calmed by the pain, nor on edge. This time, Sam felt nauseous.

His stomach churned and the nerves beneath his skin trembled, causing his hands to shake. It wasn’t the pain from pulling on his hair that caused him to be so sick, Sam realized, but it was the secret he was keeping, the secret that was now currently tucked away inside of the pillow case behind him.

Sam was struck with so much guilt that he kept bottled inside of him, that it caused him to be physically sick—that caused his nerves to be so strained and on the edge. The anxiety was going to kill him.

 _I need to tell Dean_ , Sam told himself. _I just have to._

Of course, Sam had been telling himself this for the past couple of weeks after his little secret arrived in the mail while he and Dean were staying with Bobby. Only Bobby knew Sam’s secret and Sam almost preferred it to stay that way, because he didn’t know how well Dean would take it if he told him—or if he told his father for that matter.

Sam didn’t know if he could tell either of them to their faces and that was why he was currently sitting on one of the queen beds in the stuffy hotel room, a notepad in his lap and a pen in his hand. He had thought that writing them each a letter about his secret would be easier, but it proved to be the exact opposite.

No matter how many times Sam had tried to start his letter, nothing seemed to come out right. Nothing he could put to words on the paper would make either of them understand and that’s what made Sam so stricken with guilt and anxiety.

He _needed_ them to understand somehow, but Sam just didn’t know how to say it just yet—

Hearing the click of the doorknob as it started to turn made Sam quickly toss the notepad into the drawer of the bedside table and he flopped back on the pillows just in time before Dean stepped into the room.

“Hey,” Sam greeted Dean, his voice slightly catching in his throat and he silently hoped that Dean couldn’t hear his heart hammering in his chest.

“Hey,” Dean replied back with infinitesimal interest as he placed the paper grocery bag down on the kitchenette counter and began to remove items from the bag. “Have you heard from Dad yet?”

“No. Am I supposed to?” Sam inquired. His interest piqued when he saw Dean removing what appeared to be sandwich-making essentials out of the bag.

Dean shrugged his shoulders and turned his head around to glance at Sam over his shoulder before saying in a lackadaisical tone, “I wasn’t expecting that you would. I just thought you might’ve.”

There was something in Dean’s tone that made Sam feel apprehensive—cautious, leery.

Normally, Dean would pester Sam constantly on days when their father was gone, wondering if Sam heard anything. Since Dean would disappear for a few hours each day, doing God knows what—probably convincing a poor sap to play him in a round of pool, unbeknownst to the stranger that Dean was as deadly with a pool stick as he was with a pistol—which left Sam alone in the hotel and inherently in charge of waiting around for their father to check in.

It took Sam a few minutes of pure silence and his impressive analytical skills to realize that Dean’s sudden lack of interest in their father’s well-being or whereabouts wasn’t about their father to begin with. There was something else weighing on Dean’s mind which caused him to be so distant and Sam was determined to figure out what it was.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked as he rose from the bed to come stand beside Dean—who stiffened slightly.

It was such a small, insignificant movement that Sam almost didn’t notice it, except that he did. He saw the muscles beneath Dean’s skin tighten briefly when he came to stand next to him, as if Sam standing too close caused his brother’s skin to crawl.

“Makin’ sandwiches,” Dean said, indignant. He motioned with the plastic knife that he held to the pieces of bread spread out on the counter top. “What else does it look like I’m doing? Baking a pie?”

Sam frowned at Dean’s sudden hostility and he couldn’t mask his own annoyance when he said, “There’s no reason to get an attitude about it. All I did was ask a simple question.”

Dean’s fingers tightened around the knife and his chest expanded as he took in a deep breath, holding it for a few moments. When he released his breath, the muscles in his forearms also loosened. He flicked his gaze in his little brother’s direction, an apologetic smile on his lips.

“I’m sorry, Sammy. It’s just been a rough week.” Dean ruffled Sam’s wild hair as means of reassurance before he went back to spreading peanut butter on a slice of bread.

Sam was still skeptical, but he figured he had pressed Dean far enough right now. “It’s fine. I get it,” Sam said beneath his breath.

Dean only nodded and the false smile still remained on his mouth. “Good.” He grabbed something out of the bag and handed Sam a cluster of bananas. “Here. Cut these up for me.”

Sam hesitantly took the fruit from his brother, raising an eyebrow. “What are these for?”

“You still like bananas on your peanut butter sandwich?” Dean asked.

The younger Winchester couldn’t help but smile. “I thought you said that sandwich was a disgrace?”

“Oh it is.” Dean flicked his green eyes in his direction and this time, there was a glimmer of genuine _Dean_ in them. “But I know it’s your favorite. When we're done making the sandwiches, we're going to have a picnic.”

“A picnic?” Sam asked slowly. “Doesn't that seem a little girlish for you?”

“Which is why it's perfect for you.”

Dean playfully bumped his shoulder into Sam, who shoved him a little rougher than he had meant to with his hand. His big brother chuckled and continued to spread peanut butter on the sandwiches. Sam wasn't quite sure what had gotten into Dean, but he figured he'd find out eventually.

Once they had finished making the sandwiches, Dean had Sam put them inside sandwich bags before quickly putting them back inside of the paper grocery bag, which obstructed Sam’s view of the other contents inside the bag. It seemed Dean wanted to keep whatever else inside the bag a secret.

“Where are we going?” Sam asked after a long silence.

“You’ll see,” Dean said with a wink and he gathered up the bag, snatching the Impala’s keys from the counter.

“Whoa. Dean,” Sam warned. “Dad would kill you if you took the car.”

“What’s the big deal? Dad already said he’d give it to me for my twenty-first birthday.”

“Yeah. But that’s in a whole year, Dean. Dad would be pissed if he came back to find the Impala missing--”

“You worry too much, you know that?” Dean stated with a dramatic eye roll.

“No, I worry the right amount--”

“Listen,” Dean said, cutting his younger brother off. “Dad won’t be back anytime soon. He’s out of town hunting a nest of vampires with Travis and a few of his buddies. He’ll probably be gone for another day or two. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam stressed, still not convinced. “If Dad didn’t take the car with him, I’m sure there was a good reason--”

“Sam. You’re doing it again.”

“Doing _what?_ ” Sam asked, exasperated.

“Over analyzing everything.” Dean frowned at Sam, but he softened when he must have noticed the worried lines creeping their way between the younger Winchester's eyes. “We’ll be fine. I won’t let anything bad happen to you. If Dad comes back early, I’ll tell him it was my idea, okay? I won’t let you get in trouble.”

“Rock in a hard place,” Sam observed softly, more to himself than to Dean.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing,” Sam lied, running his hands over his eyes irritably. He took in a deep breath, calming his nerves that thrummed in warning beneath his skin before replying, “Are we going now?”

The grin that curved at the corner of Dean's mouth was nothing short of a triumphant, older brother smile and the grin alone made Sam want to change his mind, but he did not. As Sam followed Dean out the door, he cast a quick glance over his shoulder at the night stand that concealed his letter and at his pillow, which held his secret.

Sam decided that today was not the day to tell Dean as he closed the hotel door.

 

\- - - - - - - - -

 

The strong, flowery scent of lavender filled the space inside of the Impala before Sam saw the field. Stretched out before them, was a lush green and bright purple field. Lavender flowers clustered in a huge group in the field, choking out the green grass that had tried to grow there.

The lavender caressed Sam's legs as he followed Dean through the field. Sam was given the task of holding the bag that held their sandwiches and something else that Dean had hidden deep within the confines of the bag. They stopped when they came to a small, circular clearing in the middle of the lavender. Sam watched as Dean spread out the blanket and he beckoned for him to sit, his big brother patting the fleece beside him.

“I still don't understand why we're here, Dean,” said Sam as his brother handed him a sandwich.

“Just eat your lunch,” came Dean's reply around a mouthful of peanut butter and banana sandwich. His brother grimaced and it appeared that he was having difficulties swallowing, which made the corner of Sam's mouth turn up into a faint smile. Dean dropped the sandwich back into the Ziploc bag, a look of repugnance on the older Winchester's face. “Wow. That's disgusting.”

“Then why did you eat it?” Sam asked and he tried to mask the laugh.

Dean shook his head by means of response and reached into the bag to pull out two red Solo cups and a bottle of strawberry wine. He watched as Dean opened the bottle and poured the pale pink liquid into both cups. Sam eyed his brother suspiciously as he took the cup from him. There was something definitely off with Dean, but he had yet to figure out what it was.

Sam set his sandwich and his cup down on the blanket. “Alright, Dean. Cut the crap. What's going on?” Sam demanded, folding his arms across his chest.

Dean raised an eyebrow at him. “What?”

“You heard me. What's going on?”

“I can't have lunch with my brother?” Dean inquired, his tone taking on an edge of defense.

“We're in the middle of a lavender field eating sandwiches and drinking wine. So no. We can't,” said Sam, bluntly. “This isn't _us_. This isn't _your style_ , Dean.”

The older Winchester glanced down at the cup in his hand. The silence that followed after was thick and unsettling. Dean's fingers flexed around the plastic and Sam could see his jaw tighten, as if Dean was contemplating something. Abruptly, his brother tossed the cup aside and stood.

“Alright. You know what? I can't do this anymore,” Dean admitted. “I tried doing it Bobby's way. I tried being nice about this, but I can't.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Sam, his face pinched up in confusion.

“ _The letter, Sam,_ ” His brother hissed. “The one you've been keeping from us.”

Sam stared up at Dean with wide blue-green eyes. His heart gave a few hard, slow beats, filling his veins with ice. His brother knew. Sam should have been relieved that somehow Dean knew about the letter, but he couldn't shake the unease that settled deep within his bones.

“How did you know?” Sam asked, his voice soft.

“I saw it sitting on Bobby's counter! Bobby kept telling me that I should talk to you because he said that _you_ should be the one to tell me, not him. I waited for _weeks_ , Sam. I waited for you to tell me about the letter and when you didn't--” Dean broke off then. His hands were clenched into tight fists at his side and his jaw was firmly set. The green of his eyes were hard and sharp like perfectly shaped emeralds. “So I read the letter.”

“Dean,” Sam tried.

“Why didn't you tell me, Sam? Dad I get. But me?” The hard edge in his brother's eyes softened slightly with hurt. “Why didn't you tell me, Sam?” He repeated, this time his voice a little more gentle than before.

“Because I didn't make my mind up yet,” replied Sam, avoiding Dean's gaze. “I didn't know if I wanted to go. I still have two years to decide, Dean.”

“That wasn't an acceptance letter,” Dean said with realization, but his tone was still wary.

Sam shook his head and met his brother's eyes. “Not the kind of acceptance letter you were thinking of. It's for a summer intern experience. Basically I would be staying at Stanford for a week during the summer to see if it's a college I would want to go to--”

“You're not going.”

Those three words hit Sam hard, causing his breath to catch. His heart hurt, as if he had been stabbed with a knife. Sam had expected this of Dean. He knew his brother would react this way, but actually hearing the words fall from his brother's lips? It was the most unimaginable pain Sam had experienced at sixteen.

“But Dean--”

“I said no, damn it,” Dean snipped, cutting his little brother off with a wave of his hand. “And that's final.”

Sam frowned. Angry tears burned in his eyes. “It's _my_ decision, Dean.”

“No, it's not. _This_ ,”--Dean motioned between the two of them--“is a dictatorship. You can't leave us—leave me. I won't let you. I'll kick your ass if you even try. Do I make myself clear?”

Sam looked away from his big brother to stare at his hands that were gripped tightly around the cup. The anger and melancholy that he felt swirled and expanded inside of him, threatening to break through. Instead of screaming and shouting and pitching a fit like he wanted, Sam let the angry tears fall and he replied with a mumbled, “Yes sir.”

 

\- - - - - - - - -

 

After their fight and each of them had taken the chance to cool off, Sam laid on the blanket, staring up at the cloudless blue sky above him. The sun’s rays caressed his skin, filling him with delicious warmth. Sam tipped his head back, lips slightly parted as he closed his eyes, relishing in the summer heat.

Then a shadow covered him, blocking his face from the sunlight. His eyes fluttered open to meet a pair of emerald green orbs, complimented with a light dusting of freckles. Dean smiled down at him. He was so close, that Sam could smell the musk of Dean’s cologne mixed with his leather jacket and he could feel his brother’s breath ghosting across his lips.

“I love you,” Dean said, gently pushing some of Sam’s wild hair from his eyes.

Sam turned his head into Dean’s hand, lightly placing a few kisses into his palm. The younger Winchester was still sore from the conversation before, but Sam couldn't bring himself to hold a grudge against his big brother. He loved Dean far too much. When he looked back at Dean, his eyes were a darker shade of green.

“I love you too.”

Sam reached up, grabbing hold of the amulet he had given Dean for Christmas so many years ago, and guided him down, their lips brushing together. When their lips met, Sam’s eyes closed again, drinking in the taste of Dean and the lingering sweetness of the strawberry wine still on his brother's mouth.

Dean gently pulled away from Sam, but only far enough to look at him. His brother was laying on his stomach, each of his arms braced on the blanket on either side of the younger Winchester's head. Dean was studying him, searching his eyes for a few moments in the warm silence.

“Do you understand where I am coming from, Sammy?” Dean asked him, lightly brushing some of his brother's unruly hair from his forehead.

“Not really,” Sam admitted. “But I will try to.”

Dean was silent as he trailed his fingers through his younger brother's hair and Sam could tell by the look in his brother's eyes, that Dean was thinking about something. He was fairly certain that something had to do with their conversation beforehand.

“Promise me you won't leave,” said Dean softly. “Promise me you won't leave us—won't leave _me_.”

“Dean,” Sam began and he made himself pause.

He remembered a conversation then that he and an English teacher had back when he was fourteen, about how he didn't have to “be in the family business”. How Sam could be whatever he wanted to be. What Sam wanted more than anything, was to go to Stanford. He wanted to go to college. He wanted to become a lawyer. He wanted so many things that had nothing to do with hunting or “the family business”, but at the same time, he wanted to make Dean happy.

Taking in a deep breath, Sam forced himself to smile at his brother. “I promise.”

Dean eyed him suspiciously, as if he knew that that was not what Sam had wanted to say, but he did not press it. Instead, Dean leaned down, his lips grazing across his younger brother's forehead. “Good. Let's head back.”

As the Winchesters trudged back through the lavender field, Dean had his arm wrapped around Sam's shoulders, holding him close. On the way back toward the Impala, Sam couldn't help but think. He thought about the letter underneath his pillow. He thought about the conversation that he and Dean had. And he also thought about the promise he made.

It was a promise, he realized as he slid into the passenger seat of the Impala, that he was not sure he could keep. Sam had spent his entire life up until that point doing what other people wanted: he did what his father wanted, he did what Dean wanted, but Sam never did anything that _he_ wanted. This was the only thing he wanted and he would be damned if he'd let his father and sadly, even Dean, stand in his way.

The younger Winchester knew what he had promised, but he couldn't keep it. As of that moment as he and his brother drove down the highway, Sam Winchester was going to go to Stanford, because for once, he was going to do something that _he_ chose to— _something he wanted_.

It wasn't until two years later that Sam would come to fully understand what his decision meant and who—ultimately—his decision hurt.


End file.
